Page 4 of His to Slash

Then, with a savage growl, he tore at my clothes, the fabric ripping like paper beneath his inhuman strength. My jeans and underwear were shredded, leaving me bare to the cool night air and his scorching gaze. I should have been horrified, humiliated even, but all I felt was a sick thrill of anticipation curling low in my belly.

The killer pinned me down with a single hand, the sheer ease of it sending a spike of fear and excitement coursing through me. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that matched the desperate throb between my legs. His other hand moved to free himself from the confines of his pants, and then I saw it—his cock, impossibly thick and terrifyingly hard.

Panic surged through me. He’d rip me apart! The rational part of my mind screamed at me to fight, to do something, anything. My hands clawed at the ground, nails digging into the dirt and leaves as I thrashed beneath him. But it was useless. He was an unstoppable force, a predator who had already decided his prey would submit.

And then, with a single brutal thrust, he was inside me.

Pain exploded through me, a white-hot agony that tore a raw, strangled scream from my throat. My body tried to reject him, every muscle clenching in protest, but it was no use. He was relentless, forcing himself deeper, claiming every inch of me. The sharp sting of pain blurred with the overwhelming sensation of being utterly filled, stretched beyond my limits.

I gasped, the sound high and desperate. Each powerful thrust drove the breath from my lungs, sent shockwaves of sensation ricocheting through my body. I was drowning in it—the intensity of being so brutally taken, the horror of my situation mingling with something darker, something traitorous that twisted low in my gut. Fear and arousal melded together until I couldn’t tell one from the other, couldn’t separate the agony from the pleasure.

His movements were a savage rhythm, each brutal stroke a branding, a declaration of ownership that left me gasping and shaking. My hips, of their own accord, rose to meet his thrusts, and a part of me—some broken, damaged part—craved more. The blade, forgotten beside us, glinted wickedly in the pale light, its menacing edge rendered almost insignificant by the raw, carnal act unfolding.

He moved with a feral grace, his body a living weapon, each thrust precise and devastating. My vision blurred, and I dug my fingers into his arms, nails breaking skin as I clung to him—a desperate, pathetic anchor in a storm of chaos. Was he the Slasher the townsfolk whispered about? The one whose name was a curse spoken only in the darkest corners of this twisted town?

But all thoughts, all questions, melted away beneath the relentless assault of his body. The tension within me coiled tighter, each powerful surge of his hips winding me closer to some dark, terrifying edge. My body was betraying me, reacting to the brutality, the sheer intensity of him.

And then I broke.

My body convulsed around him, a scream tearing free as wave after wave of violent, all-consuming pleasure ripped through me. It was almost painful, too intense to bear. I was falling, crashing into some abyss where pain and ecstasy blurred together, where nothing existed but him, his cock, and the devastating pleasure of being conquered.

But even as my orgasm pulsed through me, he didn’t stop. He was unrelenting, a force of nature that refused to be tamed or sated. I whimpered, my body trembling violently with the aftershocks of my release, but he drove into me again and again, each thrust a brutal reminder of my helplessness.

“Please,” I gasped, my voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Please, stop... it’s too much…”

My pleas were swallowed by the night, lost to the pounding of blood in my ears and the relentless rhythm of his hips. There was no pause, no mercy. Only the brutal, animalistic drive of his body claiming mine.

I squirmed beneath him, the friction creating a raw, burning heat. My skin was alive with sensation, every nerve alight with a mixture of pain and unwanted pleasure. Despite the horror of it all, there was something addictive, something irresistible in his dominance.

I was caught in a dark, twisted dance, my body responding to his in ways I didn’t understand. Each thrust stoked the fire within me, the relentless tide of desire building once more despite the ache in my muscles.

I tried to focus on something—anything—other than the unbearable intensity of him. But then I felt it. The cold press of metal against my clit.

A sob tore from my throat as I realized what he was doing. The knife—his blade, still slick with blood from whatever victim he’d claimed before me—ground against my sensitive flesh, the hard handle a terrible contrast to the soft heat of my body.

“Please,” I whimpered, tears spilling freely now, my body caught between terror and a sickening arousal that I couldn’t fight.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence, the weight of his unrelenting gaze behind that mask, spoke volumes. I was his plaything, his broken, desperate doll, and he was going to take everything.

With a single, powerful thrust, he slammed into me, the knife’s handle biting into my clit as I shattered again. My world fractured into a million shards of pain and pleasure, and I screamed—louder, longer than I ever had before.

And then he filled me, his release hot and brutal, marking me inside and out.

When he pulled back, leaving me raw and spent, I could only lie there, broken and shaking. The mask caught the pale moonlight, his gaze dark and unreadable as he watched me.

Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone in the dark.

five

Every cornerof the house seemed to breathe with a life of its own, each creak and groan reverberating through the wooden frame like ghostly sighs. My new home was a place of secrets—dark, suffocating ones that wrapped around my chest and made it hard to breathe. I had come here seeking refuge, a fresh start, but Red Hallow had twisted that hope into something rotten and malignant. The town that should have been my sanctuary had become my prison, and I was nothing more than a haunted soul drifting through its cursed halls.

No matter how tightly I drew the curtains or how many locks I bolted, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was never alone. That every shadow was watching, that every silent, breathless moment was filled with something sinister lurking just out of sight. It was as if the very walls whispered behind my back, their breath brushing against my neck in a mockery of comfort.

I told myself it was just paranoia, the remnants of the terror that had shattered my life that night—the night when I had been broken and remade by the hands of a masked monster. But deep down, I knew better. It was him. I could feel his presence, a dark thread winding itself tighter around me with each passing day. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the first signs appeared.

The footprints. A crude, taunting outline in the dew-soaked earth outside my bedroom window, so clear they could have been etched there just moments before I looked. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, my heart pounding like a drum, trying to convince myself they were just animal tracks or some trick of the light. But they were human. Deliberate. A message written in the dirt just for me.

And then, the rustling in the bushes. It would come in the dead of night, when the house was a tomb of silence, each creak and groan amplified in the dark. The sound of something—or someone—moving just out of sight. I’d rush to the window, heart slamming against my ribs, only to find nothing but the empty, hollow wind. But I could sense him. The ghost of his laughter seemed to brush against my skin, as if he were savoring every second of my fear.

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